The Magpies A Psychological Thriller - By Mark Edwards Page 0,68

outside the registry office, Jamie in his new suit, Kirsty in her lovely dress, his arm around her shoulders, the Gretna Green Fish and Chicken Bar behind them. They giggled all the way through the ceremony. It felt so absurd – but in a good way.

After the wedding, they went for a meal at a nearby pub. Everybody gave them knowing looks. They had decided to spend another night in Gretna before returning home, so they had the rest of the afternoon to fill. The sky was overcast and it wasn’t very warm, but it was such a novelty to be out of the city, they wanted to make the most of it.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ Kirsty said. ‘Enjoy the fresh air.’

They walked arm-in-arm through the village, cutting across an empty field and through a graffiti-strewn tunnel. They found a gift shop and Jamie bought Kirsty a small teddy bear. They stopped for tea, and whiled away the afternoon watching the tourists who, despite being just a few miles over the Scottish border, felt compelled to stock up on tartan and shortbread.

They took a few photographs as they wandered back to the B&B: Jamie in front of a ‘Welcome to Scotland’ sign; Kirsty beside a statue depicting an abstract couple making love.

‘I can’t believe I’m tramping around this village in the most expensive dress I’ve ever bought,’ she said. ‘I must look ridiculous.’

‘You look fantastic.’

She really did.

‘Let’s get some pictures in here,’ Kirsty said, as they passed a graveyard.

‘Isn’t it a bit gothic?’

‘No. It’ll look dramatic.’

They entered the little graveyard and looked at the stones, many of which were smothered in moss and unreadable. There were lots of graves gathered together in family groups.

‘Do you think we’ll be buried together?’ Kirsty said.

‘I want to be cremated.’

‘And I’ll scatter your ashes.’

‘Hey, how do you know it won’t be me scattering your ashes?’

She shrugged. ‘Women always live longer.’

Jamie looked up at the church and saw a large crow land on the roof. It ruffled its feathers then settled, looking down at them. He pointed it out to Kirsty.

‘Ugh.’ She shivered. ‘It reminds me of something Paul told me about. About the dreams he had when he was in his coma.’

‘He told you about them?’

‘I went to see Paul a couple of days before you and he had your big bust-up. Heather had told me she thought he was acting strangely and I wanted to check it out. He seemed fine to me that day – a little tired and subdued, but I thought, Well, he’s just woken up from a coma. What can you expect? I thought Heather was over-reacting.’

The crow shifted and spread out its wings, but didn’t take off.

‘I asked him about the dreams. I wanted to know what they involved. He asked me if I was asking in a medical capacity. I told him I was asking as a friend.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he could remember these horrible dreams. He dreamt that he was running down a hill, down towards a large town, and there were creatures flying above him: masses of them. A swarm, flying low, dive-bombing him as he ran, scraping the top of his head, getting caught up in his hair. He said they were large and black, like solid shadows, but he didn’t know if they were birds or bats. He’d get to the bottom of the hill, the creatures swooping at him from all directions, and fall over onto his face. But at the point when he’d usually wake up, the dream would start again. Looping over and over.’

‘Jesus. How awful.’

‘I know.’

They were silent for a moment, looking up at the crow, which suddenly took off, its huge wings fanning the moisture-thick air, propelling it away over the graveyard.

‘Are you still having those dreams about the gingerbread house?’ Jamie asked.

‘No. Not for a while. I haven’t had any dreams for a while.’

They took their photographs, but the mention of Paul and his coma-dreams had spoiled the mood. Later, Jamie would study the pictures and see, behind Kirsty’s smile, a hint of something else. It looked very much like fear.

‘Shall we go back to the B&B?’ Jamie asked, taking Kirsty’s hand.

As they were leaving the graveyard, Kirsty paused to look at a final gravestone. There were two names on the stone. One was of a woman – Elizabeth Anne Robertson, born 1901, died 1924. So young, Kirsty thought. But beneath her name was another name – Jane Elizabeth Robertson. Born 1924. Died